


Fair Naked Ladies

by Jenstar



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Disaster Lesbians, F/F, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Museums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenstar/pseuds/Jenstar
Summary: “We’re fucked. So fucked.”Annette bites her lip. “On a scale of one to the time I almost set Dedue’s kitchen on fire, how fucked are we?”“More fucked than the time you accidentally made Bernie cry in front of Hubert.”“Oh fuck.”Or: Disaster lesbians Annette and Lysithea accidentally ruin a bizarre painting during a museum date. So they make the most logical decision and steal it.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	Fair Naked Ladies

**Author's Note:**

> For Lois ([@lv2nt](https://twitter.com/lv2nt)). She spawned the idea. She also drew the cute title graphic.

The setting sun is blanketed by weeping clouds as Annette and Lysithea make their way through wet asphalt and grimy puddles, the would-be display of waning tangerines and marigolds muddled and buried by dull grays. 

Still, Annette can’t help but smile, left hand gripping the pink handle of her giant, strawberry-patterned umbrella while Lysithea hangs on to her bicep. They make it to their destination and rush towards the embellished glass doors of the art museum for shelter. 

Lysithea weaves a hand through her hair and grimaces as fingers catch on damp white strands. “We _would_ get caught in a storm on our first free day together.”

“Hey, look at the bright side. At least the museum is open this time.” Annette shakes out her umbrella. “There’s always a silver lining.” She tries not to wince at the memory of parading through town during an unforgiving heat wave in hopes of going on a cute museum date only to be met with locked glass doors. Annette had planned so carefully, had done extensive research and penned it all down in her color-coded planner in order to properly celebrate moving in together. But in her cheery excitement, Annette had gotten the museum hours mixed up, and the last free day she had with Lysithea ended with sweet cream ice cream falling off a cone and melting into the sweltering street. 

As they pass through the threshold of the glass doors, Annette slips on the linoleum floor and flails her arms like a damned cartoon character. She lets out a shriek and it’s so, so humiliating and suddenly Annette’s entire life is a joke. She curses her failed choice in footwear. Hilda’s voice distantly rings in her ears as Annette recalls being convinced into buying them. _Who needs practicality and grip when you’ve got boots as cute as these?_

Annette does, evidently. 

Before she falls flat on her backside, Lysithea catches her by the arm and smiles with champagne pink cheeks just shy of matching her gaze. Annette thinks almost falling on her ass is worth it.

“Silver lining, huh?”

The front desk clerk hands them brochures, and as they browse the available galleries, Annette checks her phone and smiles at all the congratulatory tweets made in hers and Lysithea’s honor ranging from advice from other coupled friends to suggestive jokes and innuendos from only Sylvain. 

Annette and Lysithea have worked hard to get here, to a place in their lives where sharing one together in a too-small living space was actually achievable and right there. They’ve parsed through hours and hours and hours of their respective Ph.D programs and plucked an hour here, saved a paycheck there until they both found themselves ready to bug Raphael and Dimitri into helping them move their things into their new tiny apartment. 

Annette used to blush every time she remembered her outburst in the middle of the library while studying together. Her tangled thoughts kept distracting her to the point where paragraphs in her text book blended into each other and every note she took down was incomprehensible. So after reaching her breaking point, she had blurted, _I’m tired of seeing Linhardt more often than I see you! Let’s move in together!_ Sometimes Annette can still hear the ghost of Felix’s snort from across the library. 

Now when she thinks about it, Annette feels proud and a little smug. 

“What would you like to see first?” Lysithea asks, open brochure in hand.

“I kinda wanna get the pretentious stuff out of the way.”

They both scan through the list of available galleries and after a moment, look at each other and almost laugh.

“Conceptual Art,” they say in unison.

*

When entering the Conceptual Art gallery, they’re greeted by a large sign asking all patrons to please remain quiet as they observe. Some of the pieces claim to require perfect silence for their nuance to be properly explored. Annette nods to herself as Lysithea tugs her along. 

The hushed piece in question is a large, bleach-white room with equally white pieces of paper scattered ankle-deep on the floor. A mechanism attached to the ceiling makes a distinct motorized sound as it suctions a bit of paper from a stack and gently releases it, the page swaying back and forth as it makes its descent. A few museum goers have buried themselves in papered piles while others catch the falling scraps and inspect them for an explanation. 

A sign on the wall simply reads, _“at hand.”_

They trudge through the paper, which now that Annette thinks about is more knee-deep than anything. She keeps this to herself and stifles a giggle as Lysithea struggles to pick her feet off the ground. She gets her foot out by sheer determination alone, and after a quiet huff, looks at the machine up above. 

Annette just stares as Lysithea regards the falling paper, hypotheses and speculation coalescing in a rapturous rosy gaze until understanding twinkles in a small brilliant glint at the corners. 

“What do you think it means?” Annette whispers, excitement thrumming in her veins as Lysithea gets ready to explain.

“I think we’re supposed to come to a conclusion about the loud machine being followed by the silence of falling paper.”

“I can see that.” Annette watches the paper pile on top of the other people in the room. “I think there’s something to be said about being able to interact with everything, right?”

“Definitely,” Lysithea affirms, and Annette beams. “It’s immersive, but transient. I’m so close to understanding completely, but I have no clue what’s being lost or missed.”

Annette scans the room and her gaze lands on the plaque hanging on the wall. _”at hand.”_

“Well, it’s called _at hand._ but nothing’s being handled by anyone. It’s all a machine. Maybe it’s about the decline of manual labor in the wake of technological innovation.” As soon as her explanation leaves her mouth, she clamps it shut. She sounds incredibly stupid, she has to if Lysithea’s widening eyes are any indication. How embarrassing.

But Lysithea’s smile is big and bright and proud when she excitedly whispers, “Yes, that’s exactly it! Nicely done.”

Color blooms on Annette’s cheeks, and she sheepishly fidgets with the phone in her front sweater pocket. “It was just a guess.”

“An _educated_ guess,” Lysithea asserts. She reaches for Annette’s hand still fumbling with her phone, but as her hand is plucked from her pocket, too many fingers accidentally smash too many buttons, and Mitski’s _Washing Machine Heart_ echoes off the silent white walls in all of its destructive, piny glory. 

Everyone is glaring, stark frowns and crinkled noses directed right at them, and Annette is totally mortified. Lysithea with cheeks as red as ripe cherries pulls her towards the exit of the gallery.

When they make it out without being eaten alive by haughty museum goers, Lysithea stops and raises a brow.

“Mitski? Really?”

Annette nervously laughs. “I was listening to Sylvain’s depression playlist earlier.”

“Ah, makes sense.” 

*

They spend much of their time in the Art Nouveau section captivated by the sinuous, decorative style. Each feminine figure framed by lovely floral illustrations and asymmetrical shapes flusters Annette.

“God I’m gay,” she whispers to Lysithea and laces their hands together.

Lysithea isn’t wholly opposed to public displays of affection, but holding hands is one of those small, intimate things that still colors her cheeks. Annette stops herself from saying something incredibly cheesy when Lysithea kisses her in front of the many Alphonse Mucha pieces. Somehow, this feels a little scandalous, and Annette smiles against her lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lysithea squeezes her hand. “Me too.” 

They move onto Impressionism, followed by Minimalism and Rococo. The Rococo gallery is probably Annette’s favorite, she decides. She’s staring at Fragonard’s _The Swing_ and is enthralled by all the details. Annette isn’t particularly artsy, that descriptor is reserved for the likes of Bernadetta and even Sylvain when he’s being honest, so she’s not entirely apt at recognizing what makes fine art _fine art._

But she sort of gets it when she looks at _The Swing._ There are so many ornate details, from the depth of every leaf and branch to the pink ruffles in the woman’s dress waving in the breeze as she swings, but even still, there’s a sort of lightness emanating from it that Annette likes a whole deal. She quietly amuses herself by imaging Lysithea as the girl on the swing and herself as the enchanted suitor on the ground. 

“You know, the flying shoe is supposed to symbolize lost virginity, and the man on the floor with his arm raised up is supposed to represent, well, you get it.” Lysithea waves her free hand towards the painting. 

“A boner?” Annette supplies. 

Lysithea huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, a boner.”

Annette’s earlier musing makes her cheeks hurt from smiling. She’s definitely the suitor on the ground. 

“What’s that grin for?” Lysithea quirks her brow. “Looks devious.”

“Oh, nothing. I’m just...being dreamy.”

Lysithea smiles. “Oh, how surprising.” She looks up at the piece and leans on Annette. “It is very beautiful.”

Annette can’t help herself. “It is, but the real work of art is you.”

“I don’t think you could have said anything more lame even if you tried,” Lysithea says with a fake frown and flushed face. She still gives Annette another kiss anyway, and they continue their little museum adventure with swinging hands.

*

They meander into the Baroque gallery and peruse around until Annette is stunned by the weirdest painting she’s ever seen. 

There’s two stark whitewomen illustrated from the waist up with almost unreadable expressions, although there’s definitely something sly and bold and flirty pulling at the corners of their mouths. They’re both nude save for the matching pearled earrings, and it has all the elements of being completely unassuming. Except the woman on the left is pinching one of the nipples of the woman on the right. There’s a fully clothed woman knitting in the background. 

Annette, for some reason, is really into it. Lysithea is also staring. 

“It’s kinda hot, isn’t it?” says Annette. 

Lysithea crinkles her brows. “Absolutely not. It’s cursed. Look at it.”

“Come on, you’re not even a little intrigued by it? Maybe we can recreate it.” Annette lightly pinches Lysithea’s arm, who attempts to stifle a laugh before swatting Annette away.

“Not even a little. Now let’s go to the Medieval section.” Lysithea tries to tug Annette along but is met with resistance. Annette has her feet firmly planted on the linoleum. She hopes Lysithea resorts to her foolproof solution of getting her way with Annette. Which is kissing her silly. Which is exactly what Lysithea does.

Despite anticipating the surging kiss, Annette’s boots are still the very definition of “super cute but super impractical,” and so when the force of Lysithea’s usually reserved affection knocks Annette back too far, the absence of any sort of grip at the bottom of her shoes is suddenly calamitous. 

A petite girl like Annette accidentally falling over a velvet rope and into the wall should be no problem. However, Annette works out. A lot. With Felix and Caspar. She’s got some density regardless of her frame. When she collides with the wall, it causes enough of a stir that the Baroque painting falls on top of her, and the unmistakable sound of a horrendous rip reverberates in Annette’s ears. She might as well have been smacked in the head by a pair of cymbals. 

When she regains her composure, Lysithea pales as fair as her hair, her pointer finger directed above Annette’s shoulder. All the affection and curiosity has leaked out of her gaze only to be replaced by disbelief and raw, unfiltered fear.

Annette slowly turns her head and inhales a gasp so sharply she almost chokes on her breath. She briefly wonders if she should just cough herself into oblivion. Maybe it’ll knock her out. Or better yet, maybe it’ll take her out entirely.

The unreasonably sharp point of her cute, strawberry umbrella has pierced right through the canvas of the painting. Even worse, it’s impaled right through the pinched nipple. Annette almost cackles. 

If she thought her life was a joke just from slipping on a damp floor, then surely it must be a whole fucking circus at this point. 

A few things happen over the next five seconds. Annette immediately unfastens her umbrella from the painting and arguably makes it worse, the nipple now hanging limply along the canvas. The alarm that triggers when someone gets too close begins to blare, Annette shares a _look_ with Lysithea. 

Before anyone really looks in their direction, Annette shoves as much of the painting as she can fit in her purse. She then opens her umbrella to conceal the rest, and the pair run through the museum until they make their way out. Annette is grateful for two things: the fact that security is only present every three or four galleries and the mercy her boots have granted her. She doesn’t slip a single time until they make it outside and a curtain of rainfall blankets them in a wet heap. Annette slips once on their sprint home. 

*

Neither of them utter a single word when they enter their apartment. Annette gently props the painting against the wall of their bedroom. The ripped shred of canvas mockingly sways with the rhythm of the whirring fan. Lysithea throws a catprint bed sheet over it. 

They take a shower, brush their teeth, and settle under the covers until Annette falls asleep in Lysithea’s arms.

*

Annette awakens to Lysithea violently shaking her shoulders.

“Annie! Get up!”

Alarm crawls under Annette’s skin as the events of the day before slowly settle at the forefront of her mind. She looks towards the painting still covered in cats. 

“Are you hearing me?” Lysithea snaps her fingers. “Have you seen Twitter? Facebook? Anything?”

“Uh, no? I just woke up—”

“We’re fucked. So fucked.”

Annette bites her lip. “On a scale of one to the time I almost set Dedue’s kitchen on fire, how fucked are we?”

“More fucked than the time you accidentally made Bernie cry in front of Hubert.”

“Oh fuck.”

Lysithea pulls Annette close and shows her the news story video depicting _everything._ From Annette’s fall to the umbrella puncturing the canvas to the pair sprinting through the museum with Annette’s outrageously large, open umbrella barely hiding anything. The newscaster asks the audience to come forward if they have information on “the two tiny art thieves.”

“Ugh, you’re right. We’re so fucked!” Annette shoves her palms into her eyes. They even called them tiny. That’s so rude. 

“It gets worse. Check Twitter.”

Annette reluctantly opens the app and groans in horror. Her feed is full of memes made from the footage ranging from nyan cat edits to captions edited over frames reading _The Power of Lesbians._. What’s worse is their friends are even sharing the memes. Not even two minutes ago Hilda quote retweeted a sped up video of them running through the museum while Crab Rave plays bass boosted and said, _I love the boots!_

Annette suddenly hates the boots. 

Before she literally starts yelling, Annette closes the app and checks their group chat. There are so many messages in there Annette doesn’t even know where to start. She decides she can’t handle backreading at the moment and just focuses on the current conversation. 

She’s met with several messages all at once. Mercedes asking if they’re alright, Yuri and Claude congratulating them on their apparent thieving skills, Caspar wondering what they’re going to do now, and Ingrid asking why they ran in the first place. And then there’s Linhardt. 

**Linhardt:** Amateurs. I’ve stolen from that museum before. 

**Claude:** !!!

**Claude:** do tell

**Ashe** : is that why you asked me about lockpicking? u said it was for research! 

**Linhardt:** It was, but when I arrived at the museum, that was all unnecessary. I simply took what I needed. 

**Mercedes:** Oh, but how did you even get away with it?

**Linhardt:** I walked out.

**Claude:** lmao never change linny

It’s all a little much for Annette until Sylvain chimes in.

**Sylvain:** Felix and I are a few blocks away. We can come by with some snacks and have a little brainstorming sesh on what you can do if you want.

**Annette:** Pls!

Sylvain sends a peace sign emoji along with a heart. 

“Sylvain and Felix are coming over to help us.”

Lysithea looks fairly miffed by the information.

“They’re bringing snacks.”

Lysithea plops backwards onto the bed and sighs. “Tell them to bring Sno Balls.”

*

After stress-devouring their weight in Sno Balls and cream soda, Lysithea takes the sheet off the painting. Sylvain and Felix just stare with open mouths.

“That’s…” Sylvain starts.

“You guys are fucked,” Felix finishes. 

“Ugh, you’re supposed to help us, not state the obvious,” says Lysithea. Annette swings a fist at Felix’s arm and barely misses. 

“Hey, maybe not entirely.” Sylvain crouches down and cradles the ripped canvas in his hand, the nipple resting right in the middle of his palm. “Maybe.”

“What if you taped it back together?” Felix teases.

“Don’t be such a villain. This is serious!” Annette would have pounced on him if Lysithea wasn’t holding her back.

“Before you maul my boyfriend, I think I have an idea.” Sylvain stands back up and smiles at the girls. “I know a guy.”

*

The guy is named Ignatz, and he’s one of Sylvain’s old friends from his time as a graduate student pursuing art history. 

Annette feels ridiculous as the four of them march towards the art studio at the GMU campus. She and Lysithea are wearing very large sunglasses and even larger straw hats to conceal their identities as they carry the painting underneath the cat sheet. The rims of the hats keep smacking Felix around, though, and Annette allows herself to smile at every small victorious slap. 

“Why do we have to wear these absurd disguises again?” Lysithea asks sourly. 

Sylvain says nothing, but he does replay the Crab Rave video and Lysithea flinches. 

“Fair enough.”

When they make it to the art studio, Ignatz is waiting with a nervous expression and crossed arms.

“Don’t forget you promised you wouldn’t freak out when we showed you,” Sylvain says as a way of greeting.

Ignatz raises a brow. “How bad could it truly be?” 

Sylvain shrugs and nods towards Lysithea, who carefully removes the bedsheet from the painting. Ignatz drops his arms and audibly gasps.

“Really bad, actually.” Ignatz slowly approaches the painting and runs a hand over the frame. “I thought the videos were fake.”

“Think you can work some of your restoration magic on it?” Sylvain asks, hopeful. 

“Please tell us you can,” Annette pleads with wide eyes. 

Ignatz takes stock of the painting, sizes it up and runs his fingers along the canvas. He pointedly stares at the ugly rip and sighs.

“I can’t really do anything about it, it’s beyond my ability. And even if I could, it would take me months. I think it’s best to just turn it.” At least Ignatz looks remorseful, Annette thinks.

“Since when were you a quitter? If anyone can do it, it’s you,” Sylvain baits. 

Ignatz cleans his glasses on his sweater. “As much as I really want to get the two of you out of this situation, the school doesn’t have the supplies. Public institutions like these don’t exactly leave a lot of room in the budget for the arts.”

Sylvain groans. “Shit, you’re right.” He offers an apologetic smile to the girls. Annette wants to be angry, she wants to be so angry so badly. But Ignatz looks just _this_ side of pained, and Sylvain’s small smile is dimpled and genuine. She sighs instead.

Felix makes sure he’s standing behind Sylvain when he says, “Told you, you’re fucked.”

“Sylvain, I’m going to maul your boyfriend.” Both Annette and Ignatz hold Lysithea back.

*

The group parts ways, and Annette and Lysithea drag their feet through the cracked pavement towards their apartment. The afternoon blue fades into a diluted pewter, and bloated storm clouds stalk them on their way home.

Somehow the threat of getting pelted by rainfall can’t rival the tension seeping out of Lysithea.

“Hey Lys, are you okay?” Annette tries. 

Lysithea abruptly picks up the pace to a borderline jog. “No, I’m not! _We’re_ not okay. We are so irrevocably fucked.”

“We’ll figure something out, I think.” Annette mumbles. 

“Ugh, we’re really not. We’re going to get caught, and then we’re going to jail, and all of our hard work would have been for nothing! A waste of time.”

“I wouldn’t say it was a waste of time,” Annette says, frustration and dejection slowly overwhelming her.

“It will be once we’re caught. Of course you had to fall over, when are you not falling over?” Lysithea turns to Annette with anger flushing her cheeks and Annette hates it.

“You’re the one who kissed me so hard I fell!”

“Yeah, well,” Lysithea momentarily falters. “If you didn’t have that outrageously large umbrella the painting wouldn’t have ripped. Really, why do you need such a large umbrella anyway? It’s impractical, we’re small!”

“That’s not even fair, and you’re the one who gave me the umbrella in the first place!”

They go back and forth until they usher themselves into their apartment. It’s silent for a few beats as they take off their shoes. 

And then they’re crashing into each other and making out in the middle of the living room. Annette is glad they’ve both come to the conclusion that if they’re going to look like disaster lesbians on the internet, might as well play the part. 

It’s hurried and angry and messy with a little too much teeth, but they find their rhythm eventually. Hands are raking through hair, pulling off sweaters, and unbuttoning jeans until Lysithea backs Annette onto the couch and straddles her.

Annette struggles a bit with Lysithea’s bra and says, “You can be such a mean nag when you’re angry.”

Lysithea swats her hand away and impatiently pulls her bra over her head. She helps Annette do the same. “Hush. Less talking.” Annette brings Lysithea down for a searing kiss, and they find a home in between each other’s legs for the remainder of the evening.

*

Eventually, they find themselves tucked beneath the bed sheets, Lysithea holding Annette close to her chest.

“Annie,” she whispers into her hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said about everything being a waste of time.”

Annette feels a small sting behind her eyes and buries her head in the crook of Lysithea’s neck. “I’m sorry, too. Although, I think we’re allowed to be a little messy sometimes.” Lysithea laughs and Annette wonders if she can feel her smile against her skin. 

“At least we’re not Sylvain and Felix.”

“Or Yuri and Ashe. What’s even going on there?” Annette adds.

“Who knows?”

They fall into a comfortable silence until suddenly the sting behind Annette’s eyes wins and she looks up at Lysithea full of tears and says, “I’m really sorry I got us into this mess! I’ll take the fall and go to titty art jail for you.”

Lysithea turns several shades of pink before tears leave tracks on her cheeks as well. “Don’t be silly. I’ll go to titty art jail, too.”

And they quietly sob into each other’s arms for a few minutes, very much staying within the margins of “disaster lesbian” territory. After a good cry, they both sit up and stare at the painting, the flap decidedly more droopy as it winks from across the room.

“What do you think it means?” Annette asks. 

Lysithea yawns, too tired to give a real answer. “Gay.”

“Yeah, gay.” Annette echoes, and then, “We should turn it in.”

Lysithea rests her head on Annette’s shoulder. “I suppose we should.”

Annette stares at the rip until an idea spirals into her head and overtakes her with uncontrollable laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

Annette wipes a tear away and catches her breath. “What if we recreated the painting?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“I mean, we’re already naked.”

Lysithea mulls it over for a minute before nodding. “Alright, but I’m the one getting my nipple pinched.” If Annette hadn’t spent the last few years indulging Lysithea in every way possible, she would have been surprised. 

They set the self timer on Annette’s phone. They rush to the couch and sit up straight while Annette reaches for and pinches Lysithea’s right nipple. She lets out a little sound that sends a little shiver down Annette’s spine. She files it away for later.

“Your fingers are cold!”

“Shh, the timer is going.”

With a bright flash and loud shutter, the camera goes off, and the pair runs over to assess the photo. Annette thinks they nailed it, flirty expressions with slight smiles curled coy and all.

“That’s kinda hot,” Annette says.

Lysithea rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m into it.”

“Want me to send it to you?”

“Yes, please.”

*

In the end, they did not end up going to titty art jail. 

Annette wasn’t sure what she was expecting; a cold, gray room with one of those two way mirrors and an old lamp being shoved in her face as she’s interrogated by an underpaid security guy, or something, probably. 

What she was not expecting was security kindly escorting her and Lysithea to a cozy backroom lined with velvet with large plush chairs that have ruined sitting for Annette forever. They’re offered refreshments while they wait for the curator and the collections manager. Annette and Lysithea exchange bewildered expressions, and Lysithea grips onto the bed sheet covering the painting. Annette starts counting the cats. She gets to twenty-two before the door abruptly opens and startles her. 

They’re met with a tired curator and even more exhausted collections manager. Annette can’t stop staring at their hair, the curator’s as bright as seafoam and the manager’s as green as pine. Annette wonders if Linhardt got away with his crimes because from the view of a presumably gritty security camera, he probably looked related to them.

“Alright,” says the curator, bone-weary but slightly optimistic. “Let’s see it then.” She offers an encouraging smile. 

Lysithea slowly removes the sheet and the curator grimaces as the ripped nipple flops over the canvas. The manager looks absolutely horrified, like he witnessed the murder of his first-born via an oblivous postal worker accidentally running his child over in his driveway. 

“It’s worse than I thought.” The curator takes the ripped canvas between her fingers. “It’ll take months to restore, but thankfully it can be done.” Annette thinks she’s being entirely too calm about the whole thing. 

The manager seems to be on the same page. “That’s all you have to say? They ruined a priceless painting and stole it! Surely you have more to say about the matter.”

“That is true,” the curator responds. Annette can’t read her expression and it’s a little terrifying. “But in the long run, it could have much worse. They have returned it to us after all, which means our insurance will cover it.”

“I suppose,” the manager grits. “But we can’t just let this go. They committed several crimes that have caused irreparable damage.”

The curator looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “I wouldn’t say irreparable, that’s a bit dramatic. We’ve dealt with much worse.”

“You’re not gonna send us to ti— jail, are you?” Annette can’t help but ask.

The curator just sighs. “No, we will not be pressing charges. We reviewed the footage countless times. We know it was an accident, no matter how...absurd it was. Thank you for returning the painting despite its condition.”

The manager interjects. “You’re lucky we have a large insurance policy, otherwise the consequences could have been very dire for both parties.”

“We are grateful for your generosity,” says Lysithea. Annette squeezes her hand. 

“However, I think it would be inappropriate if there were zero repercussions,” he asserts. “Therefore, the both of you are banned from the museum for a year.” Annette chews the inside of her cheek. It’s fair, but she still feels a little glum about it. 

When they walk outside, the sky is bold and bright and sunbeams glimmer through the white puffs drifting lazily above. The girls are walking in no particular direction. Annette looks over at Lysithea and revels at how the day glow refracts off that rozy gaze, how the sun makes her white hair opalescent in the light. Annette has to say something.

“That wasn’t so bad!”

Lysithea smiles and Annette is so in love. “Well, we are banned for a year. What’s the silver lining?”

Annette allows herself to give it some thought as they walk through the city, but she’s too distracted by the soft affection emanating from Lysithea as the daylight envelops them in a cozy warmth despite the slight chill in the air. So what she says is, “We have time to get ice cream?”

Lysithea lets go of Annette’s hand to hang onto her bicep and kisses her cheek. Annette almost trips over her own foot, but Lysithea’s grip keeps her steady. 

“I love that silver lining.”

**Author's Note:**

> [The painting they ruined.](http://cartelen.louvre.fr/cartelen/visite?srv=car_not_frame&idNotice=1105)
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I’m on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/jenstarlol)


End file.
